The Intervention
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Post Bombshells, Wilson organizes an intervention to get House off drugs.
1. Chapter 1

**Here's part one of a little intervention fic I'm cooking up. Post Bombshells. House is on pills, acting out. But no Dominika because. . . I'm sick of that Ukrainian ho. (Heh.) ****  
****Enjoy!**

House entered Wilson's apartment, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"I don't know how you got those front row tickets to the Monster Truck rally, buddy boy, but I seriously owe you. . ."

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Foreman.

"Dr. Killjoy's not coming with us, is he?" he groaned. "He'll ruin everything!"

Then narrowed his eyes. "You don't even like Monster Truck rallies," he said to Foreman.

"I'm not going to the Monster Truck rally," Foreman said.

House laughed.

"Wilson, we'll only be gone for four hours. You don't need to have Foreman water your plants."

"He's not watering my plants," Wilson said, looking nervous.

"Then what. . .?"

"He's here because I asked him to come," a voice said.

House looked up: Dr. Nolan emerged from the bedroom.

House looked genuinely stunned for a moment.

"What the hell is he doing here?" he said.

Now the three men—Wilson, Nolan, and Foreman—all stared back at him.

House exhaled in an resigned sort of way. "I'm not going to the Monster Truck Rally tonight, am I?" he said.

"No," Wilson said.

"Because this is some sort of intervention."

"Yes," Nolan said.

"See ya!" House said, heading to the door. Foreman grabbed him firmly by the arm before he could leave.

House stared at Foreman's hand on the arm of his leather jacket accusingly.

"I get it. So he's here as the muscle?"

"I'm worried about you, House," Foreman said.

"We all are," Wilson said.

House shook himself loose, gave a derisive chuckle.

"With all due respect, this is the lamest intervention I've ever seen. My doctor. My employee and my _former _best friend." He gave Wilson a little glare.

"And don't forget me," a woman's voice said.

Blythe House stepped out of the bedroom.

House's mouth dropped open.

"Are you all out of your minds?" House said. He'd gone from vaguely annoyed to completely furious.

Then, more gently, to Blythe:

"Mom! What are you doing here?"

"I came because I'm worried about your drug problem, Gregory."

"What drug problem? There's no drug problem. Just a prescription for pain medication. I've explained that to you thousands of times . . . "

Once again, he shot a lethal look at Wilson.

"Greg, I'm not naïve," Blythe said. "I've known about your vicodin abuse for years. I was so happy when you got help. And things seemed to be going so well for you. . ."

House folded his arms and shook his head. His face was turning several different shades of red. He looked like he was about to explode.

"This is bullshit and you all know it's bullshit."

"House, everyone's here because they care about you," Nolan said patiently.

"Stop with the touchy feely bullshit. You know that doesn't work with me."

"Your friends want you to be happy."

"If they wanted me to be happy, they would leave me the fu—" he caught himself, remembering his mother was there—"the _hell _alone!"

"Since your breakup with Cuddy, your vicodin use has been off the chart," Wilson said.

"Which is no one's business but my own."

"House, you're killing yourself," Foreman said.

"And again I say, if I want to kill myself, that's nobody's business but my own."

"Greg!" Blythe said, aghast.

House slumped his shoulders a bit.

"Mom, I'm sorry that you wasted your time. I assure you that I'm not killing myself. Yes, I'm going through a bit of a rough spell. What I need is Monster Truck rallies. Distractions. _Fun._ Not interventions from my _highly misguided_ friends."

"House, why don't we all just sit down so we can discuss this together?" Nolan said.

"There's nothing to discuss. This intervention is officially over."

Again, he bolted for the door. Again, Foreman grabbed his arm.

"Foreman, let go of me," House hissed. "I'm serious."

Foreman gave Nolan an uncertain look.

"Your mother traveled 500 miles to be here for this," Nolan said.

"I'm sure Wilson will buy her dinner," House said, pulling away. "He's like the good son she never had."

"So that's it?" Wilson said. "You're not even going to hear us out?"

"There's nothing any of you could say to make me want to stay."

"What about me? Is there anything I can say?"

And Lisa Cuddy stepped out from the bedroom.

######

Eight hours earlier, Wilson stood in Cuddy's office, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the next.

"Something on your mind, Wilson?" she said, ironically.

"I'm worried about House," Wilson said.

"And this is different from any other day with the word 'day' in it _how_?" she said.

"As you know, he's back on vicodin."

Cuddy sighed.

"I know that," she said.

"It's gotten worse in the past few weeks. Yesterday, he practically drained an entire bottle of pills before lunch."

Cuddy closed her eyes tightly for a second, then opened them.

"I don't see what this has to do with me. . ." she said.

"We're staging an intervention tonight at my apartment . . ."

Cuddy gave a little snicker.

"Good luck with that," she said.

"And I'd like for you to be there."

Now her snicker turned into a full-blown laugh.

"I'm the last person on earth House would want there. I'm Public Enemy Number One in his mind. And if you want my advice, save yourself now. Don't do the intervention. It's just going to end in misery and tears—and I don't mean House's tears either."

"Blythe House is arriving by train in four hours," Wilson said.

That caught Cuddy off-guard.

"Whoa," Cuddy said. "Bringing out the big guns. House is going to be furious with you over that."

"A chance I'm willing to take," Wilson said.

"I still don't see why you would want me to attend."

"Because House listens to you. Sometimes it seems like you're the _only_ one House listens to."

Cuddy shrugged.

"House listens to me when he wants something from me—namely sign-off on a procedure or sex. Since neither of those applies in this instance, I don't see how I. . ."

"House listens to you because he loves you," Wilson said.

Cuddy cast her eyes downward, but didn't reply.

"Don't you feel any responsibility for this at all?" Wilson said, testily.

Cuddy swallowed.

"Of course I do," she said softly.

"Then help us help House."

"If I thought I could help at all, I would. . ."

"I do think you can help."  
"I might actually make things worse. House basically hates my guts right now."

Now it was Wilson's turn to snicker.

"Yes, of course, hate. That's exactly how he feels toward you," he said.

"Okay, he _thinks_ he hates my guts," she conceded.

"Tell you what?" Wilson said. "Come to the intervention, but stay hidden in my room. If it seems like we're making no headway at all, you can reveal yourself. A final gambit, if you will."

"That'll just piss him off more," Cuddy said. Then she got a faraway look in her eyes as an idea seemed to take root.

"Unless. . ." she said, almost to herself.

"Unless what?"

Cuddy looked back up.

"Nevermind," she said. "I'll be there. Is 7 o clock good?"

"Perfect."  
######

When House saw Cuddy he, very briefly, got flustered. Then he recovered and his face became a mask of scorn.

"_This_ is your big finish?" he said to Wilson. "Lisa 'The Executioner' Cuddy? I'm supposed to collapse to the ground in a puddle of gratitude and remorse? Give me a break."

He limped purposefully toward the door.

"I'm outta here," he said. "Sorry mom."

"Greg!" Blythe said, starting after him.

"Blythe, let me," Cuddy said. And she followed House into the hallway.

When he saw her following, he began walking more quickly.

"Christ, leave me alone," he said, pressing the button for the elevator over and over again, rapidly. (In a less agitated state, House might mock someone for doing that.)

"House, come back in," Cuddy said, in a calm voice, as though she were talking someone off a ledge—which, in a way, she was.

"Am I fired if I don't?" he spat.

"Of course not!"

"Then fuck you. You're not my girlfriend anymore. You're not my _anything_ any more."

"I'm your friend."

"Ha. Some friend," he said.

The elevator arrived and he stepped in.

"Wait!" Cuddy said. "Let me at least show you something."

She pulled out her iPhone.

"What? You topped your high score on Angry Birds?" he said. "Congratulations."

"Rachel has a message for you."

House looked at her, shocked. But he used his cane to jam the elevator door before it shut. He stepped out.

"What message?" he said, skeptically.

"Watch," she said.

She opened a video and hit play.

Rachel was sitting in her high chair, her legs dangling. She had a bowl of elbow macaroni in front of her.

"Okay," Cuddy's said, off camera. "What do you want to say to House?"

"Mama said. . ." Rachel looked up at her mother expectantly.

"Go ahead sweetie," Cuddy's voice encouraged.

"Mama said you're sick and that I can't see you until you get better," Rachel finished.

"That's good, Rach. Go on."

"So please get better soon cause I miss playing with you Howse."

"Tell him what you miss, baby."

Rachel looked down, suddenly a little self-conscious.

"l miss when you read my stories in the funny voices," she said, in almost a whisper. ". . . and play Monster Truck Barbie Demolition and make slime milkshakes with me."

"Good job!" Cuddy's voice said. "Anything else you want to say to him?"

Rachel's big blue eyes widened.

"I love you, Howse."

Cuddy shut the phone. She gave House a knowing look.

"Low blow, Cuddy," House said. But his voice was shaking.

'"Just come back inside," Cuddy said. "At least hear us out. _Then_ you can call us all assholes and storm out, okay?"

House folded his arms, blinked hard.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm doing this for Rachel, not for you."

And he followed her back in.

######


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone tried not to look too shocked (or too pleased) when Cuddy and House re-entered the apartment.

"So how does this work?" House said, edgily. "Do we hold hands? Sing kumbaya? Pray together?"

"We just sit and we talk," Nolan said.

House scratched his head.

"Can I take a leak first?" he said.

"Sure," Nolan said. Then he side-eyed House. "But why don't you leave your jacket behind?"

"I'm afraid you're going to go through my pockets," House said.

"You're going to the bathroom to take vicodin," Nolan said, matter-of-factly.

"No I'm not. . ." House started. Then he set his jaw a bit. "So what if I am?"

"No reason to hide your drug use, House. We all know you're taking vicodin. That's why we're here. And no one is asking you to go cold turkey tonight."

"Fine," House said. He reached into his jacket pocket, shook four pills into his mouth, and swallowed them without water. He was about to put the pills back in his pocket when he stopped: "I'm sorry!" he said, in a fakely ingratiating voice. "How rude of me. Anyone else want some?"

"Are you finished House?" Nolan said.

"Comfortably numb," House said. "Exactly the state I need to be in for this bogus installment of Self-Help Theater."

"Let's all just sit down then," Nolan said.

Nolan gestured for House to sit on the arm chair, which he did. Everyone else assembled around him on the two couches.

"I want to start this session by asking you why you think you're back on drugs, House," Nolan said.

House looked cagily around the room.

"Well, everyone assumed I was going to relapse, and I didn't want to disappoint," he said.

"You mean after your breakup with Dr. Cuddy," Nolan said.

"No," House said. "After _The L Word_ was cancelled." He rolled his eyes. "Yes, after my breakup with Cuddy."

"But Wilson filled me in on some recent events," Nolan countered. "Hadn't you already relapsed before she broke up with you?"

"I didn't relapse!" House said. "I took pills _one time_ at a moment of extreme duress."

"That's a relapse," Nolan said.

"To-ma-to, To-mah-to," House muttered.

"And now?"

"No reason not to take them," House said.

Nolan nodded. He had that particular look on his face he got when he knew House wasn't being completely forthright with him, but had decided to indulge him anyway.

"Let me rephrase the question then," Nolan said. "Why did you stay clean for two years?"

"I'm pretty sure Cuddy would've kicked me out if I'd taken drugs," House said.

"So that's it?" Nolan said. "You didn't take drugs so Cuddy wouldn't break up with you?"

"Was I wrong?" House said. "I used drugs one time and she disposed of me like I was last year's hem length."

"I didn't. . .!" Cuddy started, but Nolan cut her off.

"You'll have your chance, Dr. Cuddy," he said.

"So you stayed clean so Cuddy wouldn't break up with you . . ." Nolan continued.

"Basically, yeah," House said.

"Any other reason you stayed clean?"

"Nope," House said.

"What about yourself?"

"What about me?"

"Did you stay clean for yourself?"

"You think I _liked _being in pain all the time?"

"You've said yourself that the vicodin dependency makes the pain worse."

"True. But the vicodin also makes the pain go away. It's a pretty simple formula actually. No vicodin, constant nagging pain." He glanced over at Cuddy. "And one huge pain in my ass, but that's a whole other story. . ." Then, pleased with himself, he continued: "With vicodin, extreme pain that disappears _as soon as I take the pills_. I'll take option B."

"I see," Nolan said. Then he added: "So what's it like being an addict?"

"Why don't you guys tell me? You're all addicted to worrying about me."

"What's it like being addicted to vicodin?" Nolan said, patiently.

House rubbed his chin, sighed.

"It's . . . It is what it is. Like I said, as long as I have my pills, I'm fine."

"Unless you're hallucinating," Nolan said.

"I haven't hallucinated in three years," House said, defensively.

"Fair enough. What about when you can't get your hands on the pills. Then what?"

"Then. . . it isn't pretty," House admitted. "Fortunately, I work in a hospital, so that's not exactly a problem."

"Sure, as long as he's forging 'scripts in my name," Wilson mumbled.

House looked at him.

"You'll get your chance, too, James," Nolan said. "What about your health?" he continued, turning back to House. "Do you worry about what the pills are doing to your liver?"

"We all have to die of something," House said.

"Greg!" Blythe said.

"Sorry mom."

"Do you ever worry about losing control?" Nolan asked. "Drugs addicts are known to do extreme things: They can be reckless, even violent."

"I'm always reckless in a reasonable way," House said.

"Oh yes," Wilson said not able to contain himself. "Jumping off that balcony was very reasonable."

Blythe's mouth dropped open.

"Greg!" she repeated.

House shot Wilson a deadly look.

"I'm fine, mom. It wasn't a suicide attempt. I had calculated the distance, the acceleration rate, and the depth of the pool. I knew I wasn't going to die. It was just a really awesome cannonball."

"As I watched from the ground, screaming in horror."

"Sorry 'bout that," House said.

"That's actually a good transition…" Nolan said.

"Into talking about what a pussy Wilson is?" House said, hopefully.

"I want everyone here to talk about how House's addiction has affected them personally. Wilson, let's start with you."

"Thank you," Wilson said, glad to finally have the floor. "I just want to start by saying that I really don't want my best friend to die."

"That goes without saying. We all feel that way," Nolan said.

"Not all of you," House muttered, glancing at Cuddy. She shook her head in an exasperated sort of way, but said nothing.

"Tell me how House's addiction has affected you personally?"

"You mean, besides the fact that I risk my medical license every time I write him a 'script?"

"That's valid."

"And the fact that I once had my entire savings account drained because of him?"

"Also valid."

"How about the numerous times he's blown me off because he was too high to remember we had plans? The countless times he's lied to me, berated me, humiliated me—always while on drugs or jonesing for drugs." Then Wilson sighed and gave a slightly accusatory look at House.

"And, of course, other. . .more, um, permanent things."

"Like what?" Nolan probed.

"I'd rather not say."

"He's talking about the time I killed his girlfriend," House muttered.

"I never said that!" Wilson said.

"Man up, Wilson. Say what you mean."

Wilson looked around the room, as though trapped. He exhaled.

"I love House. He's my best friend. But I will never be able to shake the feeling that Amber would still be alive if he wasn't an addict."

"And you'll never let me forget it. . ." House grumbled. He began to rub his leg. Then, when he noticed everyone looking at him, he stopped.

"Thank you, James," Nolan said. "I know that wasn't easy for you. Let's move on. Dr. Foreman?"

"As you all know, I have enormous respect for House and will always view him as a mentor," Foreman started.

"This isn't a job interview, Foreman," House grumbled. "You already have the job." Then he raised his eyebrows provocatively. _"For now_."

Foreman ignored him.

"But yes," he said. "House's drug use has affected me—all of us on his team."

"How so?" Nolan said.

"Basic things, of course. Having to explain to the patient why the doctor who's making life and death decisions on their behalf just popped a fistful of narcotics in his mouth."

"Why doesn't House just explain that himself?"

Foreman gave a tiny snicker. "House doesn't interact much with his patients."

"So the burden falls on you and the team to make excuses for him?"

"Yes."

"What do you say?"

"That he's on pain meds, but it in no way clouds his judgment."

"Which is true," House said.

"Not entirely," Foreman countered. "When House is on drugs, you never know what you're going to get. One day, he's cool, under control House. And the next day, he's so hopped up, he can barely focus. Plus, he's a bigger asshole when he's on drugs."

"I'm always an asshole," House said.

"True. But until this most recent. . .relapse, you were a lot nicer."

"Maybe that had something to do with the fact that I was getting my knob polished by the Dean of Medicine."

"Greg!" Blythe said, appalled.

"Just ignore him, Blythe," Cuddy said. "I always do."

And she and House exchanged sneers.

"Actually House you were less of an asshole even before you started seeing Dr. Cuddy," Foreman said. "The drugs make you a bigger jerk."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," House cracked.

"Thank you, Dr. Foreman," Nolan said. "Dr. Cuddy, let's move on to you . . ."

"Oh, this ought to be good," House said, leaning back in his chair.

"Ummm," Cuddy said, looking down at her hands.

"Excellent start!" House mocked.

"On the professional front, I've had to lie for House more times than I can count—once even under oath—and put my professional reputation on the line over and over again."

"Go on. . ."

"Also, he leaves the hospital vulnerable to all sorts of malpractice suits."

"Of course. . ."

"His behavior once cost the hospital a million dollar grant."

"From _the devil_," House chimed in.

"And on the personal front?" Nolan probed.

Cuddy hesitated. She folded her hands on her lap, then unfolded them.

"House said the cruelest thing anyone has ever said to me when he was withdrawing from drugs."

House furrowed his brow. He had no idea where she was going with this.

"What did he say?" Nolan asked.

"This was four years ago. House told me that I would. . . That I would suck as a mother."

House's mouth dropped open.

"I never said that!" he said, in genuine disbelief.

"It was particularly hurtful, because I had just suffered a miscarriage," Cuddy said, looking down.

"Oh honey," Blythe said, reaching over and squeezing Cuddy's hand.

"I. . .had no idea," House sputtered. "I had no idea you had a miscarriage and I literally have no recollection of ever saying that."

"House you were so strung out, you barely could stand up straight," Cuddy said.

"I'm. . . I'm sorry . .I don't know what to say," House said. He looked down at his Nikes, tried to collect himself.

"What about later?" Nolan asked. "How did his drug use affect you when you were in a relationship with him?"

"I was determined not to let it," Cuddy said. "I mean. . .of course I knew that House was an addict. And I knew there was a chance he would relapse. But I chose not to focus on that. I made a decision to let him into my life and into my daughter's life and that was because I trusted him. I believed—or at least I _wanted_ to believe—his sobriety would stick."

"But it didn't," Nolan said.

"Actually," Cuddy said. "For a long time, it did. And I was so proud of him." She glanced at House. "I don't think I told you often enough how proud I was."

"Try never," House said.

Cuddy nodded.

"That was wrong of me. I should've told you every day how much your sobriety meant to me. . . "

House swallowed hard, then tried to look like what she had said was no big deal.

"But House has a way of making you think he's in control. . .even when he's not," Cuddy said.

"Meaning?" Nolan said.

"I had no idea that he had constant, nagging pain," Cuddy admitted. "He never told me." Then she turned to House. "I wish you had opened up about that more."

"Nobody wants to hear about my pain," House said. "It's boring."

"If the man I love is in pain, that's not boring to me!" Cuddy said, angrily.

"_Love_?" House said, emphasizing the present tense.

Cuddy glared at him.

"Yes, love," she said.

House gave a skeptical snort.

"And how do you feel now that he's back on the drugs?" Nolan asked.

"I feel . . .guilty."

"As well you should," House said.

"House, your sobriety is not Dr. Cuddy's responsibility," Nolan scolded.

House shrugged.

"It may not be her responsibility, but it is her fault," he said.

"Again, I remind you that you used drugs while you were still seeing Dr. Cuddy," Nolan said.

"I THOUGHT SHE WAS DYING!" House screamed. Then, with great effort, he lowered his voice: "But I guess no one cares about that."

"We care," Nolan said. "We just question your judgment in that moment."

"I'm sorry if my judgment wasn't appropriately sound when I thought my girlfriend was going to die."

"Addicts take drugs first, come up with excuses later," Nolan said.

House broke into a slow clap.

"I'll be sure to put that on a tee-shirt."

Nolan turned back to Cuddy.

"Anything else you want to say to him?"

"Just that . . . I once told House that he was the most incredible man I've ever known," she said. "That's always going to be true. But he's the best version of that man when he's sober."

"Did you practice that in front of the mirror, Cuddy?" House said.

"I mean it," Cuddy said.

"Thank you, Dr. Cuddy," Nolan said. Then he turned to Blythe. "I know we all want to hear from you."

"Actually, we don't," House said. He looked imploringly at his mother. "Mom, you don't have to do this."

But Blythe straightened her back, regally.

"Greg House is my only child," she said, to the room. "I love him more than I love life itself. But he has a lot of demons and he has a lot of pain. We all know that. It wasn't easy growing up with his father—you're going to have to trust me on this. And it wasn't easy realizing that no one was ever going to truly understand him—he was never going to meet someone at his intellectual level."

Blythe chuckled a bit, as if over a memory. "I'll never forget the kind of wild-eyed frustration he would get when he tried to explain one of his scientific theorems to me and his father. We were completely lost. We couldn't begin to understand what he was talking about. This was when he was 10, mind you."

She smiled softy.

"I know he's in pain—physical pain and emotional pain. But I need him to be strong. I need him to be strong because I buried his father two years ago and that was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I will NOT bury my son." She looked up at House. "Greg, I _will not._"

Tears were streaming down her face. Wilson reached into his pocket and gave Blythe a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes with it. Cuddy put her arm protectively around Blythe's shoulder.

"I need you to be strong for me, Greg. Can you do that?" Blythe sniffed. "I _need_ that from you."

"Mom. . ." House said. He looked genuinely stricken, but he didn't know what else to say.

There was a long silence.

"Okay. . ." Nolan said finally. "We've now reached the portion of this session where we talk about the consequences of House's addiction. This is the hardest part of the process, what we call the 'tough love' part. So Blythe, I'm going to start with you."

Blythe smiled sadly.

"I don't have any consequences. I could stop making him his Christmas fruitcake, but I know he re-gifts that anyway."

"I do not!" House protested.

"Don't lie to me, Greg," she said. Her wet eyes began to twinkle. "I always know when you lie."

House sighed in defeat.

"It's really horrible fruitcake, mom. It weighs more than Taub."

"Who's Taub?" Blythe said.

"This hobbit I work with," House said.

"What else?" Nolan said, trying to keep the focus.

"I could threaten to call him less, or visit him less. But that's not really a threat. You all know how sons are. . ."

"You could threaten to visit him _more_," Wilson chimed in, proud of his joke.

There was some awkward laughter.

"Anything else, Blythe?" Nolan said.

She nodded, turned to her son.

"All I can say is, every time you take a pill, every time you even _think _of taking a pill, envision me attending your funeral." She shuddered at the thought. "I don't know if I could live with that, Greg. It would kill me."

"You're stronger than you think," House said.

"So are you," she replied.

Nolan nodded approvingly.

"Foreman?" he said. "What will your consequences be?"

"No more making excuses to the patients," Foreman said. "The next time a patient asks about House's drug use, I'll send them straight to the source."

"Good. Wilson?"

"No more prescriptions for vicodin," Wilson said, making tentative eye contact with House. "My prescription pad is officially off limits."

"How many times have I heard that before?" House said.

"This time I mean it," Wilson said.

"Yeah, me too," House replied, ironically.

"Follow-through is crucial for these interventions to work," Nolan said. "For all of you. Whether you realize it or not, each and every one of you has become an enabler. You need to break the cycle of co-dependence."

"Consider it broken," Wilson said.

House rolled his eyes.

"And Dr. Cuddy?" Nolan said. "What will your consequences be for House?"

"Hasn't she already done enough?" House said, bitterly.

"I already told House that he couldn't see my daughter—whom he loves very much—until he's clean."

"That's not enough, Dr. Cuddy," Nolan said. "He already hasn't seen her in over a month. What will you do to stop his drug use _today_?"

"I don't know what you expect me to say," Cuddy said, nervously.

"I think you do."

"What? You want me to say that I won't let him practice medicine at the hospital if he's on drugs?"

"You make it sound like it's unreasonable," Nolan said. "It's actually very reasonable. The unreasonable thing is letting him stay at work."

"But House saves lives!" Cuddy protested.

"And now we're trying to save his," Nolan said.

"I. . .I. . ."

"She won't do it," House said smugly. "She feels shitty enough as it is for dumping me and driving me back to the pills."

Now everyone was looking at Cuddy expectantly.

She gulped.

"House: If you don't stop using vicodin, I will no longer employ you at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," she said firmly.

"You wouldn't!" House said, stunned.

"Just watch me."

House stared incredulously around the room—and once again he was that wild-eyed 10-year-old misunderstood by the world.

"Fine! If you don't want me at the damn hospital, I fucking quit!" he said, standing up. He grabbed his motorcycle jacket. "Fuck all of you. This intervention is over."

And he stormed out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Special thanks to MystryGAB for helping me come up with the idea for the second half of this fic. **

Wilson made up the guest room for Blythe House and brought her a cup of chamomile tea before she went to bed.

"You need anything else?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said, yawning a bit. "Just tired. It's been a long, frustrating day."

"I know," Wilson said sympathetically "But he'll come around."

"You sure about that?" Blythe said. "I've never seen Greg so upset. I hope we didn't push him too hard."

"Yeah," Wilson said, scratching his head. "But that's how these interventions are supposed to work. I mean, if they were pleasant, they'd call them vacations, right?" He gave a nervous chuckle.

"I guess," Blythe said. "It's just that Greg didn't seem very . . . moved by our pleas."

"But that's House. He's never does what other people tell him to do. At least not when they tell him to do it. He prefers to pretend it was his idea to begin with."

"I hope you're right, James," Blythe said.

"I am," Wilson said, with false brightness. They both knew he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

She smiled sweetly at him.

"You're a nice boy," she said, almost wistfully.

He nodded. "Yup, that's me," he said. "A nice boy."

"It's comforting to know that you're my son's best friend."

"Thanks," Wilson said, feeling strangely choked up by this bit of maternal approval. "Goodnight, Blythe," he said, closing the door behind him.

"Goodnight, James."

He walked into the living room where, only two hours earlier, House had cursed them all and left.

He pressed the first speed dial number on his phone.

"Fuck off," House said, hanging up before Wilson could say a word.

Wilson immediately called back.

"What part of _fuck off_ didn't you understand?" House repeated.

"Don't hang up! I'm just calling to see if you're okay," Wilson said.

"No, actually I'm not okay. You see, earlier today I was betrayed by my best friend. You might know him? Oncologist? Goes by the name of Dr. Judas Iscariot?"

"That wasn't a betrayal, House. It was an intervention."

"Strike one was staging the _stink_-ervention to begin with. Strike two was inviting my mother. Strike three was inviting the she-devil herself—that was a particularly nice touch, by the way. Three strikes, you're out."

And he hung up again. The next time Wilson called, it went straight to voicemail.

Wilson stared the phone in his hand for a long time. Then he poured himself an overflowing glass of wine.

"Nolan, I hope you know what you're doing," he said out loud.

#####

House sighed, put on his headphones, tried to block out all the voices that were jockeying for position in his head.

His mother, begging him to stay alive.

Wilson, still blaming him for Amber's death. (He always knew that Wilson would never truly get past that. He _knew_ it.)

And Cuddy . . .her role in all of this possibly bugged him the most. How was he supposed to know she'd had a miscarriage if she never told him? What was he, a mind reader? And she knew better than to internalize anything he said when he was strung out like that. He'd lash out at Mother Theresa if she was getting between him and his drugs.

Vaguely, through the music, he heard a banging on his door.

He yanked off his headphones.

"For the third time Wilson, what part of fuck off don't you understand?" he bellowed.

"House, it's me."

Cuddy.

House had this sudden urge to hide under the bed, turn out the lights, pretend he wasn't home. But of course, it was too late for that.

He grit his teeth and limped to the door.

"You here to offer me my job back?" he said, letting her in. "A little 'nudge-nudge, wink-wink, we both know I was just kidding back there' arrangement?"

"No," she said plainly.

He stared at her, folded his arms.

"What then?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was worried about you. My neighbors are watching Rachel."

"The Cornishes?" House said.

"Yeah."

"Rachel says they smell."

Cuddy gave a small laugh.

"I'm actually not supposed to be here," she admitted. "Nolan said not to. Tough love and all that."

"Then go home, Cuddy."

"Not until you tell me you're okay."

"You mean, am I suicidal?" House said. "I guess if I offed myself, the intervention would be categorized as a failure, huh?"

"Not funny, House," Cuddy said, looking at him.

"I'm not suicidal. Do I need to write: 'I will not kill myself' 'I will not kill myself' 100 times on a chalkboard?"

"I need to know you're okay."

"I'm fine," he shrugged. "It was no big deal."

She took his hand.

"House, I just want you to know, I'm here for you."

"How so?" he said, looking quizzically at her hand.

"You're not alone in this. I'll give you all the support you need."

Unexpectedly, and quite swiftly, he pulled her toward him and landed a rough, somewhat greedy kiss on her mouth. His tongue was hot and probing and tasted slightly of scotch.

She pushed him away.

"Jesus, House! Dammit! Why must every gesture of kindness turn into sex with you?" she said.

House looked down. His hands still tightly gripped her waist. He let go.

"I don't get you Cuddy," he said, more confused than hurt. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me."

"I want you to be healthy and safe and not on drugs."

"Fine," House said. "You said your piece. You cleared your conscience. Now _go home_."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I actually want what's best for you?"

"Gee. I don't know, Cuddy. Maybe because you _dumped me_."

"That again."

"Yeah, _that_."

"I didn't invent the breakup, House. That's how dating works. Someone usually gets dumped."

"_Someone_? Ha! We both always knew it was going to be me, didn't we, Cuddy?"

"Actually, I never thought about it. Unlike you, I didn't map our relationship out to its most pessimistic conclusion right from the start."

"No, all you did was bitch and moan about how I wasn't good enough for you."

She shook her head.

"I'm not playing this game, House," she said. "I'm not going to rehash our relationship."

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Because you'd rather pretend that I was the big bad villain in our relationship and that you were this helpless victim who never did anything wrong."

"I tried!" she protested. "I did everything I could to make our relationship work! I gave you one chance after the next!"

"You just keep telling yourself that," House said, sarcastically.

Cuddy put her hands on her hips.

"Alright, go head. Spit it out already, House. I know you want to say something to me."

He hesitated. His eyes widened. Then he finally spoke.

"You always talked about how I didn't care about you," he said. "How I put my needs in front of yours. But you never once. . ."

"Never once what?"

"You never once considered my needs!"

Cuddy recoiled.

"You've got to be joking! All I did was think about you!" she said. "I invested all my time, all my energy, into making our relationship work."

"No. . . you invested your time and energy into thinking about the ways I was failing you."

"Bullshit."

"Did it ever occur to you, Cuddy, that your health scare was as hard on me as it was on you—maybe harder?"

Cuddy closed her eyes and exhaled.

"I know it was, House."

"Did it ever occur to you that I agonized about taking those pills, but that I did it for you—so I could be with you?"

"The fact that you needed drugs to do the right thing just proves that you're a drug addict," Cuddy said.

"BUT YOU KNEW I WAS A DRUG ADDICT!" House yelled. Then he added, under his breath: "Well, except for the part where you conveniently forgot about my pain."

"Don't blame me for the fact that you are a master at hiding your pain."

"You knew that I was scared. Hurt. That I had just relapsed after 2 years of sobriety. And you ditched me anyway, Cuddy. But yeah, _I'm _the one who didn't care enough."

Cuddy felt dizzy for a second, like she was about to be swallowed up by the floorboards.

Her eyes started to well up.

"Don't fucking cry," House said. "Do _not_ fucking cry. For once, can this not be about you?"

Cuddy blinked hard, the tears stung her eyes—but she didn't cry.

"You're right House," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "It wasn't fair for me to break up with you when I did. But it wasn't fair when you left me alone to die either. And it sure as hell wasn't fair when you elected to bring drugs into my child's world."

"I never took drugs in front of Rachel!" House said.

"No," Cuddy said. "Because I never gave you the chance. Everybody has a last straw, House. That was mine."

"Fine," House hissed. "Then stop this fucking charade. Stop pretending that you care about me."

Why did he always do this? Cuddy thought. Why did he always distort things—her feelings, his _own_ feelings?— to the point that they were unrecognizable? She refused to follow his lead.

"No matter what you say, I do love you, House. You can choose to believe me or not. But you can't come back to my hospital until you're sober. And you sure as hell can't be in my life—or my daughter's life—in any way. So deal with the consequences of your own behavior. Take some responsibility. And grow the fuck up."

He stared at her, agape.

Turns out she had given him some tough love, after all.

######

The next day, Wilson strolled into Cuddy's office, looking enormously pleased with himself.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" Cuddy said. "Last night was an unmitigated disaster."

"Not so fast. Guess who just checked himself into the rehab center of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital?"

"He didn't!"

"He did."

"You're kidding. What did he say?"

"That he would do anything to get us to all shut up, including rehab."

"If he doesn't really want to be there, it won't work," Cuddy said, alarmed. "You remember last time he was up there."

"This is different. He's shaken, Cuddy. We got to him. He even admitted that he got no sleep last night."

"That makes two of us," Cuddy sighed.

Wilson squinted at her.

"What's up with you? This is what we both wanted. So why aren't you more pleased about it?"

"It's nothing. It's just that House and I. . ."

"You what?"

"I went over to his apartment last night.'

"Nolan said we couldn't!"

"I know what Nolan said, but I went over anyway."

"And?"

"And we had a rather . . . intense conversation. Things were said. Hurtful things, on both sides. I still feel. . .unsettled about it."

"Huh," Wilson said. "Well, maybe you actually got through to him. House said something pretty telling this morning."

"What's that.?"

"He said, and I quote, 'It's about time I grew the fuck up.'" 

_To be continued. . .  
_


	4. Chapter 4

The morning after the intervention, House called Nolan.

"You win, Nolan," he said. "Book me your finest suite at the Mayfield Hotel."

"No," Nolan said.

"_No_? Was I was wrong in thinking that last night was an intervention? Because, if not, that was one really lousy party game."

"Yes to rehab," Nolan said. "No to Mayfield. You're not hallucinating. You're not in a crisis—well, no more than any other addict. You should check yourself into the Peabody Wing."

"At PPTH?"

"Why not?"

"Because they're a bunch of morons. I'll be mainlining vicodin by the third day."

"Then why check yourself into rehab at all?"

"Good question."

"That's why I'm asking it."

House hesitated.

"I'm sick of hurting the people I love," he said, honestly. "I'm sick of _being hurt_ by the people I love. I figure getting clean is the first step to accomplishing that."

"Told you you didn't need Mayfield," Nolan said. "Look. The reason why you're not going to be mainlining vicodin by the third day is because you don't want to be. You want to get sober. The Peabody Wing is as good a place as any to do that. Plus, employee discount!"

"Are you sure?" House said. The tiniest bit of doubt had crept into his voice. He didn't know if he trusted himself not to scam.

"I'm positive," Nolan said. "As I see it, eight weeks in the Peabody Wing and then you and I can discuss starting your therapy again."

"You're not going to bill me for the intervention, are you?" House said. "Cause that would be a dick move."

Nolan laughed.

"Good luck House," Nolan said. "I'll see you on the other side of sobriety."

#####

House woke up shackled to the bed.

At some point during the night one of the goons in the rehab wing must've restrained him. Also, some asshole had scratched the shit out of his arms and legs.

There was a reason addicts hated to detox, House thought. Because it sucked. There was nothing to compare it to, except for perhaps a slow-motion plane crash. (If, at the end of the long, inevitable descent you weren't actually dead but in so much pain you just wished you were).

"Good morning!"

He looked up.

It was a tall, slim woman in a lab coat, about 50. She had short gray hair, trimmed neatly, and she wore gardening clogs. House vaguely recognized her from the hospital cafeteria.

She walked over to the window, opened the blinds.

"I'm Dr. Jean Waterson. I'll be your case worker during your stay. How are we feeling today?"

House blinked, adjusted to the light.

"I don't know how _you're_ feeling, but I feel like shit," he said.

She smiled tolerantly.

"Sorry about the shackles. You were scratching yourself pretty raw last night. We thought you might need a blood transfusion. Shall we take them off?"

"Why don't we?" House said, with false cheer. "Then, just for fun, you can give me a gun and see which one of us I shoot first!"

"I'm glad you still have your sense of humor, House, you'll need it."

"Who says I'm joking?"

"I trust you," she said, leaning over and unlocking his restraints.

He shook out his arms and legs.

"Ugh," he said.

"Scale from 1 to 10, how's the pain?" Jean asked.

"Eleven," House said.

"I can get you a clonidine," she said. "That'll help."

"Vicodin would help more," House said.

"We're working on that," she said. "So. . .here's the story. You can stay in your room for another day. Then on Monday, you can join everyone else in the cafeteria and the commons, maybe even sit in on your first group therapy session."

"I'm not really much of a joiner," House said.

"We're going to work on that, too," she said, mirthfully.

"Yeah, good luck with that," House said.

#####

From Mayfield, House had learned how to handle group therapy.

You didn't have to say much, but every once in a while it was good to have a fake epiphany about your childhood. If you could manage a few tears, all the better.

It was also good to spew back some of the bullshit they fed you. Counselors loved when you repeated their words back at them: "I realize I am not in control of my life!" or "I clearly need to take responsibility for my own actions!"

Then you could go back to dozing off.

House's first group therapy session had been pretty uneventful. The chairs—brightly colored and plastic, as if their very cheeriness could make up for the general gloom of the room—were uncomfortable. But then again, everything was uncomfortable for House right now. His leg was killing him.

They hadn't even made him say much, except for his name and his drug of choice. ("Dr. Lisa Cuddy" he thought for a second, and almost laughed out loud.) He was about to head back to his room, when Dr. Jean Waterson stopped him.

"So what did you think?" she said.

"I loved it. It was better than _Cats_," House said.

She chuckled.

"House, this may be inappropriate for me to say, but I'm. . .an admirer of yours."

"And here I assumed based on the clogs and the lack of makeup that you were gay," he said.

"An _intellectual_ admirer," she said, scoldingly. "I think what you do, all those lives you save, is pretty incredible."

"I'll be sure to sign an 8X10 glossy for you before I leave," House said.

"That won't be necessary," Jean said. "But I do want to say, I'm proud of you for doing this. I know it took courage."

"Oh yeah," House said. "Real courage. I'm a big fucking hero."

"I wish you could see yourself as others saw you, House," Jean said. "I think it would help with your recovery."

Then she gave him a warm pat on the arm and left him alone in the group therapy room, staring at the incongruously cheerful chairs.

#######

A few days later, some of his fellow patients roped him into a game of online trivia. (He was bored. The TV was on the fritz.) House beat them so soundly they decided to change the rules. They began playing House against "the field." Sometimes as many as 12 patients pitted their collective knowledge against him. A few times, they even recruited the counselors to help. House usually won pretty handily anyway.

House had just correctly answered a question about Lech Walesa's famous motto ("Solidarity will not be divided or destroyed," House said, with a yawn) when he peered into the hall—and frowned.

"Gotta go," he said, popping up.

"You can't leave!" a patient named John said. (He was a pharmaceutical student who had delved a little too enthusiastically into his own research). "You're the whole game!"

"You're a smart kid, John. Pretend to be me," he said—and rushed into the hall.

"Checking up on me?" he asked.

Lisa Cuddy, who had been walking briskly toward the elevator, stopped.

She turned, gave a slightly embarrassed smile, folded her arms.

"Hi House," she said.

"Hello Cuddy," he said. "And you don't need to check up on me. I'm not scamming this time. I'm clean. If you'd like, I can urinate into a cup for you. Or into your purse. "

"I'm not checking up on you," Cuddy said.

He squinted.

"Then why are you here?"

"Last I checked the fourth floor was part of the hospital that _I run_, House. I come up to this wing all the time."

"No, actually, you don't," he said. "You come up here once a week, at 11 am, on Tuesdays. Today is Friday. Look Cuddy, if you don't believe that I'm sticking with the program. . ."

"House, I believe you!"

"What then?"

She sighed, then said softly: "If you must know, I'm up here because I'm seeing Dr. Ball."

House's mouth dropped open.

"Cuddy, he's married!"

Cuddy grabbed House's arm, and dragged him to an alcoved corner of the hall, near a window. (It was the same semi-hidden corner where House occasionally snuck out to smoke cigarettes.)

"I'm seeing him professionally," she whispered.

House furrowed his brow.

"You're seeing a shrink?"

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Today was actually my first session."

"But why?"

Cuddy gave a little snort.

"_Why_?"

"Yes why."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I've had a bit of trauma in my life lately."

"You mean. . .because of your illness."

"Yes, because of my illness. And . . . because of our breakup."

"Which was entirely your choice," House countered.

"Just because it was my choice, that doesn't mean it wasn't traumatic for me," Cuddy said.

"Funny, I try to avoid self-inflicted trauma," House said.

"Do you?" Cuddy said, archly.

They both had a to laugh a bit. House was the master at bringing misery to his own doorstep.

"Okay, I'm a bad example," he conceded. "But most normal people try to avoid creating more pain for themselves."

"Guess neither of us are normal then."

He nodded at that, somewhat satisfied.

"But why now?" he probed. "We broke up over a month ago."

"I guess . . .I guess the intervention and our little late night shouting match had an effect on me," she said.

"What kind of effect?" he said.

"I don't know, House. I'm just trying to getting a more clear understanding of where things went wrong between us."

"Besides me screwing everything up?" he cracked.

Cuddy laughed.

"Yeah, besides that," she said.

House shoved his hands in his pockets.

"So how did it go? Did you talk about me? Did you make it clear to Ball that you broke up with me _despite_ our incredibly satisfying sex life?"

Cuddy shook her head.

"Actually House, we mostly talked about my childhood."

"Welcome to my world," House said.

Just then, one of the counselors came out of the rehab center, and spotted House.

"House, you need to get back to the . . ."—then he noticed Cuddy. "Oh, sorry Dr. Cuddy, I didn't see you there."

"It's okay, I've got to go anyway. . . "

His head dropped. This unexpected encounter with Cuddy had been the highlight of an otherwise shitty week.

Noticing this, she put her hand on House's arm.

"I have another appointment next Friday?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Same corner?" he said.

"It's a date."


	5. Chapter 5

House was looking at his watch.

It was 2 pm on Friday, exactly the time he was scheduled to meet Cuddy, and he had been cornered by Larry, a well-meaning, if somewhat dim-witted fellow patient who was convinced he knew the secret to curing House's pain.

"My cousin Lou had this really horrible back pain," Larry was saying. "I mean, if he sat for a long time—like, in this one particular easy chair he had—he sometimes couldn't stand up."

"Sounds traumatic," House said, impatiently.

"Anyways, he went to these springs. You know, the kind they have upstate? Those naturally hot springs?"

"Hot springs, yeah," House said, distractedly.

"A few soaks in those springs and he was good as new. Played golf last weekend."

"Wow. Thanks for the tip," House said, quickly backing away. "I will definitely, _definitely_ check those out,".

"I can send you a pamphlet on the springs once I've been sprung," Larry said, laughing at his own joke.

"You're good," House said, pointing at him. "Spring. Sprung. Witty stuff."

And then he turned and limped away so quickly, Larry didn't have a chance to reply.

The corner was ominously empty. House looked at his watch: 2:05.

Shit, shit, shit. Maybe she had already come and gone. Or maybe she had changed her mind about coming to begin with?

He hopped up on the window ledge and tried to look calm, but it was hard to affect an air of nonchalance when you were eagerly waiting for someone. His leg jangled.

To steady his nerves, he lit a cigarette (a bad detox habit) and blew a smoke ring out the cracked window, hoping nobody would give him grief about it.

"Ewww, gross!" Cuddy said, materializing like an apparition from the hallway. She looked at him disapprovingly. "And since when you do smoke cigarettes anyway?"

"What cigarette?" House said, flicking it out the window.

It was impossible not to grin at her like an idiot.

"You came," he said.

"So did you," she said, shyly.

"I was able to break away from my very busy schedule of _doing absolutely nothing_ to meet you," he said.

She laughed.

"I'm honored," she said.

"So," House said. "How was your therapy? Did you crack the code of your own subconscious?"

"Not quite yet," Cuddy said. "That's next Friday."

"But you must've learned something," House said.

"I learned that. . .I'm a perfectionist," Cuddy said.

"And that was some sort of a newsflash?" House cracked.

"Shut up!" Cuddy said, girlishly. Then she added, "I also learned that perfection is impossible and the pursuit of perfection is sometimes misguided."

"Hmmm," House said. "I like the sound of this. Did my name come up?"

"You were what triggered the discussion of imperfection," Cuddy said, with a smirk.

"Naturally," House said. "I am, after all, the poster child for imperfection."

Cuddy shrugged in a "hey, you said it, not me" sort of way.

"What else?" House asked.

"That's enough!" Cuddy said, hitting him. "I showed you mine, now you show me yours." (She was flirting with him. House was getting seriously excited by this.)

"I learned that I'm the only one in my unit who knows the capital of Guam," House said.

"What?"

"Oh, I guess you were looking for something more personal," he joked. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he said: "The prevailing thought is, I need to love myself more."

Cuddy snorted.

"They could build monuments to your ego," she said.

"Jean says there's a difference between having a huge ego and believing you're deserving of love."

Cuddy squinted at him.

"You're serious?" she said.

He nodded slowly.

"I guess I am," he said.

"Of course you're deserving of love, House," Cuddy said. "How can that even be a question?"

House shrugged.

"Hey, you were at the intervention. I'm just the asshole who makes his mother cry, insults the woman he loves, and kills his best friend's girl."

"House. . .no," Cuddy said. "We staged that intervention because we all _do_ love you. Well, okay, maybe not Foreman. But the rest of us."

The corners of House's mouth twitched into a tiny smile.

"And as far as you insulting me. . .," Cuddy continued. "That was four years ago. I apparently got over it—what with the whole falling in love with you and being your girlfriend and all."

He nodded sadly.

"I really had no idea about the miscarriage, Cuddy," he said sincerely. "I feel like total crap about that."

"It's okay," she said. "I forgive you. _Forgave y_ou, a long time ago."

They looked at each other for a long time. It was House who broke eye contact first.

"So that's the plan," he said. "Less ego. More self love—but not in the masturbatory sense of the word."

"I kinda got that," she said.

"Unless you have any spare naked pictures of yourself lying around."

"You're impossible," she said.

Then they both smiled.

"I should, uh, probably go. . ." Cuddy said, gesturing toward the elevator.

"Me too," House said. "Big plans Huge."

He bent toward her a bit: "Should I reserve this corner for next week at this time?"

"Yes, but next time I demand a nonsmoking corner," she said.

And House gave barely perceptible sigh of relief.

######

It was Cuddy who arrived first. She took in his appearance as he approached.

"You look good," she surmised. "Healthy."

"Thank you," he said. "You also look healthy. If healthy is a euphemism for incredibly fucking hot."

"House," she scolded.

"Too soon?" he cracked.

They both looked down, slightly embarrassed. House deftly changed the subject.

"So, what did we learn about in the vast, uncharted world of Lisa Cuddy's subconscious today?" he said, grinning at her.

"I learned that I can't control every outcome."

House waved his hand in a dismissive, slightly affected way.

"Girlfriend, we learned that on the first day of group," he said.

She shrugged.

"Maybe what I really need is rehab," she said. "I apparently have my own issues with. . .addiction."

They exchanged a look.

"So. . ." House said. "Speaking of which, did my name come up with Dr. Ball today?"

"I thought you were working on checking your ego!" she teased.

"Just making conversation," he said.

"Actually, you didn't come up much. Mostly we talked about my withholding, impossible-to-please mother."

"Funny coincidence that, we talked about my withholding, impossible-to-please father today in group," House said. "But we also talked about the fact that he used to beat the shit out of me so. . . I win!" he added ironically.

"House," she said, reaching for his hand. She knew a little bit about House's troubled childhood, but not much. (As usual, House preferred to keep painful things to himself.)

When she looked down at his hand, though, she inadvertently laughed.

"What's that?" she said, turning over his wrist.

"What do you think it is?" he said.

"It's a friendship bracelet," she said, chuckling. "A beautiful one at that."

Then it occurred to her. "Did you. . . _make_ that?"

"We've got a lot of free time in this place," House said, embarrassed.

She continued to hold his wrist, which he liked, and assessed his handiwork.

"Naturally you would make the most beautiful friendship bracelet I've ever seen," she said. "You could actually sell these."

"I'm glad you like it," he said, reaching into his back pocket. "Because I made you one just like it."

He pulled out another colorful woven bracelet, exactly like his, only narrower.

"House," she said—again, scoldingly.

"What?" he said innocently. "It's a friendship bracelet, not a 'will you be my girlfriend again?' bracelet."

"Fair enough," she said.

He held the bracelet toward her.

"May I?" he said.

"Sure," she said.

He tied it around her slender wrist, marveling at how beautiful and perfect one human wrist could be.

"I'm made one for Rachel, too," he said.

He pulled another, tiny bracelet out of his pocket.

"Oh, how cute!" Cuddy said.

"Black and yellow," he said. "I figure if she's cool enough to pick the bumblebee as her favorite animal, she deserves a bumblebee bracelet."

"House, she's going to love it."

"You'll make sure she knows it's from me?" he said.

"Of course," Cuddy said.

"Cool," House said, nodding.

######

"So. . .how they treating you in here?" Wilson said. It was his second time visiting House in rehab. The first time, House was still in too much pain to be fully coherent.

"It's okay," House said. "The patients are 70 percent less crazy than the ones at Mayfield."

"I'm sure you single-handedly bring down that percentage," Wilson cracked.

"Cute," House said.

"And the pain? The withdrawal symptoms?"

"Better every day," House said.

"Good," Wilson said. Then he caught sight of House's bracelet.

"What's that?" he said, knowingly.

"It's a space ship," he said. "It's a bracelet, you moron. What do you think it is?"

"I know what it is," Wilson said, leadingly. "I'm just wondering why I saw Cuddy wearing the exact same bracelet earlier today."

For a second, House's heart skipped a beat—s_he's wearing the bracelet—_and then he recovered.

"I may've made her one," he said, with a shrug.

"You've seen Cuddy?" Wilson said.

"Yeah, she's come by a few times. To check up on me."

Wilson's face broke into a huge grin.

"You don't say," he said.

"Oh God. I hate when you look so pleased with yourself."

"I'm allowed to be happy for you, aren't I?" Wilson said. "It's nice that Cuddy's coming to visit you."

"We're not _dating_ or anything," House said. "We're just talking."

"And wearing His and Her bracelets, apparently," Wilson said.

"Shut up, Wilson."

Wilson laughed a bit. Then he said, "I gotta go. I have a patient. Maybe I'll come back tomorrow?"

"Suit yourself," House said.

Wilson nodded.

"I'll come back tomorrow then."

As he got up to leave, House said: "So maybe you're not such a Judas after all."

Wilson smiled.

"I love you, too, man," he said.

Then as he got to the door he said, dejectedly: "How come I didn't get a bracelet?"  
#####

House had only two more weeks left in rehab. This normally would qualify as good news, but he was having an incongruous, possibly even insane thought: He didn't want rehab to end because that would mean the end of his clandestine meetings with Cuddy. With each passing interlude they seemed to get closer and closer. She touched him more, made more meaningful eye contact, laughed more at his stupid jokes.

What if he left rehab and the spell broke?

He decided he needed to be a little more proactive.

"So," he said, the next time he saw her. "Have you told Ball about our mindblowing sex life yet?"

"Why are you so obsessed with me talking to Dr. Ball about our sex life?" she teased.

"I dunno. The idea of you talking about it to _anyone_ kinda turns me on," he admitted.

"House, the produce section of Whole Foods turns you on."

He shrugged.

"Any place with you in it turns me on," he said.

She blushed, then said: "What about you? Do you talk about our sex life in group, heaven forbid?"

"All I want to do is talk about my sex life with you," House said. "But no one is willing to indulge me."

"You're too much," she said, laughing.

House looked around the corner, into the hall, which was empty.

He bent toward her.

"I miss your body," he whispered.

She closed her eyes.

"Hooooouse," she said, disapprovingly. "Don't."

"What? Don't you miss my body, too?" he said.

"Of course I do," she said.

"It's right here," he said. "It's been right here the whole time."

He took her hands and placed them on his waist.

"I'm right here," he repeated.

She looked up at him, almost helplessly, then found herself, reaching under his shirt, caressing the bare flesh beneath his tee-shirt, where his hips met his jeans.

That was all the incentive he needed. He slammed her up against the window sill and began kissing her, ravenously. In moments, they were a tangle of mouths and hands and limbs, until Cuddy came to her senses and pushed him off.

"House, we can't."

His face was hot and he was out of breath and his mouth was smeared with her lipstick.

"Why not?" he whined.

"Because, you're in treatment. Because I shouldn't even be seeing you right now, let alone making out with you in a hallway," she said.

"But you're my best medicine," he said, reaching for her again.

"And!" she said, backing up. "_And_. . .we're in public. In the hospital that I run."

"This is a very secluded corner!" House protested.

"No it isn't! Anybody could walk by at any minute."

As if on cue, Dr. Jean Waterson came out of the rehab center. She looked both ways down the hallway and spotted House's cane.

"There you are," she said.

Then she noticed the very disheveled Cuddy.

"Ah, hello, Dr. Cuddy," she said, embarrassed.

"Hi Jean," said Cuddy, wiping her own mouth, in an attempt to get House to do the same. "House and I were just discussing . . .a case."

"She misses my mind," House said, wiping her lipstick off his face with his sleeve.

"Well, we're starting group therapy in five minutes. . ." Jean said.

"I'll send him right back in," Cuddy said, officiously.

"Take your time," Jean said, making her escape. (Technically fraternizing with loved ones was verboten in rehab. But who was Jean to tell that to her boss?)

Once she was gone, Cuddy glared at House in a "told ya so" way.

But he was smiling at her.

"What's so damn amusing?"

"You said we couldn't hook up because I'm in treatment. Also because you're the Dean of Medicine. Also because we're in public. One thing you didn't say? Because we're no longer together."

"It was implied," Cuddy said, half-heartedly.

"You're very precise with your language, Cuddy. You didn't say it for a reason."

"I got . . . carried away," Cuddy said. "You're looking for a narrative where there is none."

"If you say so," House said, happily. "But remember. Your subconscious knows best."

_To be continued. . . _


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, so Dr. Ball is obviously a Huddy fangirl and a horrible therapist, to boot. But hey, once you've introduced friendship bracelets into the mix, all bets are off. Hope you enjoy. **

**p.s. No new fics for a little over a week because I'll be in France visiting with Grumpy Doc, Princess Rainbow Puke, Gaiaarky, and Maya. Woot!**

"Let's talk more about House," Dr. Ball said.

Cuddy, who was sitting across from him in a chair (in the first session, he'd given her the option of lying on the couch, which she declined—it just seemed like such a cliché to her), gave a little smile.

"Your favorite subject," she said.

"And yours," he replied.

Cuddy raised her eyebrows in a "touché" sort of way.

"What about him?" she said.

"You told me that you two got together the day after you accepted a marriage proposal from Lucas."

"True. . ."

"Didn't you worry then that House was the ultimate rebound relationship?"

Cuddy thought about that for a second.

"No," she said carefully. "Quite the opposite, actually. _Lucas _was more like the rebound relationship."

"How do you figure?"

"I used him. Not that I realized it at the time. But I think Lucas was just my way of running away from my true feelings for House."

"Why would you do that?"

"Fear I guess."

"Of what?"

"Of . . . everything. Of the intensity of my feelings. Of losing control. Of getting hurt—again. Of bringing someone so . . . volatile into Rachel's life."

"Then what made you change your mind?"

"I just couldn't keep lying to myself. I could pretend to be in love with Lucas, but I wasn't. House was the one I really wanted—the one I had _always_ wanted."

"So you decided to take a leap of faith?"

"Yes," Cuddy said.

"Embrace the imperfect perfection?" he said with a knowing smile. It was a catch phrase Ball used a lot in Cuddy's therapy.

"I guess so," Cuddy said, sheepishly. "Yes."

"And how did it go? Did House live up to your expectations?"

"Actually, no. He was better," Cuddy admitted. "I mean, the good stuff was great, as I knew it would be."

"What good stuff?"

Cuddy looked down, somewhat shyly.

"Well, sex for one," she said quietly. Then she added with a dry chuckle: "House would be thrilled that we're discussing this by the way."

"Why's that?"

"He seems to think that my therapy is like one big Penthouse Forum session where all I do is talk about what a great lover he was."

"How does House even know about our sessions? He's down the hall in rehab, right?"

Oops. Cuddy had hoped to avoid this subject.

"I've, uh, been visiting him," she said.

"Visiting?"

"Yeah, just a few stolen moments here and there—nothing official."

She looked down, smiling reflexively, at her bracelet. "He actually made this for me."

Ball looked at the bracelet vaguely and then did a slight doubletake and looked closer.

"Wow. That's actually really good," he said.

"That's House," Cuddy said, with a shrug.

"So what you guys talk about?"

"Therapy—his and mine. Our lives in general. And, of course, we . . .flirt."

"Flirt?"

"Yeah, House and I always flirt. It's like breathing for us."

"Sounds like once again a line is being blurred," Ball said.

Cuddy gave a little laugh that seemed to imply: "If only you knew."

"What was that laugh for?" Ball asked. (He didn't miss much.)

Cuddy unconsciously began tracing her lower lip with her index finger.

"House and I kissed last week." she admitted. "Well, more like nearly mounted each other in the hallway."

"What stopped you?"

"We were in public!" Cuddy said. "Also . . . Jean Waterson kind of caught us."

"Like a couple of teenagers in love," Ball said.

"More like in heat."

"So it's safe to assume that you and House had a healthy sex life?"

Cuddy raised her eyebrows.

"The best. . ." Then she gave a slightly dirty smile. "But I always knew House was a good lover—even before we began dating."

"How'd you figure?"

"For starters, we hooked up when we were in college."

"I had no idea you two went back that far."

"Oh yeah," Cuddy said. "Suffice it to say, we had a strong physical connection even back then. But that's not how I knew. . . a woman just knows these things."

"How so?"

"Everything about him—his hands, his body, the way he moves, even with that limp. The guy's sex on legs. He's catnip—well, to me at least."

Then she realized she'd said too much. Her face turned red.

"Oh God," she said. "You must think I'm like some sort of pervert."

Ball smiled.

"Quite the opposite. As a therapist, it's refreshing to hear about a couple that's satisfied with their sex life."

He waited for the normal color to return to Cuddy's cheeks before asking: "So. . .what else? What else about House exceeded your expectations?"

Cuddy gave a half-shrug.

"The way he was with Rachel, I guess. I always knew he was going to have to learn to deal with her somehow. I never expected them to bond like that. It was touching."

"Anything else?"

"Just. . . how hard he tried. He really did. House has, like zero social skills. Couldn't care less about what anyone thinks of him. Too busy solving his puzzles and being annoyed with the general stupidity of humanity. But he tried to be a good, normal boyfriend to me. He failed royally, of course, but he tried. . ."

Briefly, Cuddy flashed to House showing up at Sanford Wells' wedding, in his tux. Dancing with her. Even that ridiculous date at the go-cart arena. . .he had _tried. _

"So despite all his flaws, he really was a good boyfriend, huh?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Cuddy chuckled. "It's just that I expected him to be the _worst_."

"And yet you loved him."

"I will never not be in love with that man," she admitted. "He's in my blood, you know? Part of my DNA."

"But that wasn't enough," Ball said.

"No. . ." Cuddy said, almost defensively. "There was the selfishness, that we've already talked about. There was his inability to share his pain—or mine. Empathy is not one of his strong suits. And then, of course, he went back on drugs."

"Which you saw as another example of his selfishness," Ball said.

"Another example of his inability to be there for me—yes—when I needed him the most," Cuddy said.

"Let me spin it a different way for you, if I may," Ball said.

"Do I have a choice?" Cuddy asked, ironically.

Ball smiled.

"When you and House were dating, you fought a lot, right?"

"I wouldn't say _a lot_. . .But we had a few, um, spirited disagreements."

"Usually because he was upset with you?" Ball said, leadingly.

"I see where you're going with this," Cuddy said. "No, usually I was the one who got angry with him. But trust me, he deserved it! I'm a lot more patient with House than most women would be."

"I don't doubt that," Ball said. "They used to call you the House Whisperer around the hospital."

"They _did_?"

He chuckled.

"I probably shouldn't have told you that. But yes. Your special way of handling Dr. House did not go unnoticed by the staff—and this was long before you two began dating."

"Huh," Cuddy said.

"But let's get back to those times when you guys fought. He never started the fights, did he? Never complained that you weren't being a good enough girlfriend to him? That you hadn't lived up to _his_ expectations?"

"No," Cuddy said, almost laughing at the thought. "House was very satisfied in our relationship."

"When you were mad at him, did you ever kick him out of the house—out of your bed?"

Cuddy shrugged.

"Occasionally."

"How did House feel in those moments?"

"When I sent him packing? Not happy."

"But did he ever use drugs after one of your fights?"

She frowned.

"No, never."

"Is that surprising?"

"No. . .House was very committed to his recovery."

"And yet, ultimately, he did take drugs again. Why?"

"To be with me when I was sick. . .but you knew that already."

For some reason, Cuddy felt her heart beating more quickly in her chest.

"I know. . . I'm just trying to make a point here. You claim that House is selfish, not sufficiently caring. But this man—this man who is 'in your blood,' who's part of your 'DNA' as you so eloquently put it—only got back on drugs so he could be there for you when he thought you were dying."

Dr. Ball studied Cuddy's face. She swallowed.

"Of course, you could say, a grown man should be able to deal with a loved one's illness without resorting to drugs—and I wouldn't necessarily disagree," he continued. "But you could also say that it was the ultimate in self-sacrifice."

"I . . .I never thought of it like that," Cuddy stammered.

"I'm just trying to give you a different perspective."

######

Cuddy was ten minutes late and House's leg was jangling again. Maybe the kiss had gone too far. Maybe he had crossed some sort of invisible line. He never knew with her. She ran so hot and cold with him.

When she finally showed, he deflected with humor, as he always did.

"You're late," he said, smiling. "And here I thought I brought a condom for nothing."

When she didn't smile, he added: "Just kidding. I know you're still on the pill."

When she _still_ didn't smile, he raised his hands, guiltily.

"Whoa. Touchy subject. I'm going to stay here in my neutral corner of the corner. I promise I'll keep my hands where you can see them at all times."

Then he squinted at her, noticed that her eyes were rimmed with red.

"Hey," he said, hopping off the ledge. "What's wrong?"

She exhaled.

"Rough session," she said quietly.

He stared at her dumbly, ill-equipped, as usual to deal with her feelings.

"Do you wanna. . .talk about it?" he asked cautiously.

She looked at him, started to speak, stopped—and suddenly, she was in his arms, hugging him and his shirt was getting wet with her tears.

"Cuddy!" he said, horrified. "Tell me what happened! I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."

"I'm sorry," she said, in a muffled voice into his shirt.

For a moment, he was filled with dread. She was breaking up with him again. Not that they were officially back together. But it had been feeling like a reconciliation of sorts—or at least a newfound closeness. She was having regrets and didn't know how to break it to him.

He closed his eyes, braced himself.

"What are you sorry about?" he said.

"I'm sorry I made you take drugs!" she said.

This completely threw him off guard.

"_What_?"

He held her at arm's length and looked at her.

"I'm sorry you relapsed because of me and then I broke up with you," she sniffed. "I'm a horrible person."

He almost laughed, but of course, he couldn't.

"Cuddy, that's a bit of an oversimplification."

"You're in rehab because of me!" she said.

"I'm in rehab because I'm an addict," he said, firmly.

"But you never would've taken the drugs if I hadn't gotten sick."

"We have no way of knowing that. . ." he said.

"And then I dumped you."

"That you did."

"And I feel like shit about it," Cuddy said.

"Hey," he whispered, pulling her back toward him, kissing the top of her head. "I forgive you."  
#######

House was packing his stuff into his duffel bag when Dr. Jean Waterson materialized in the doorway.

"Last day, huh?" she said.

"I hope so. Otherwise, me packing up my stuff would just be embarrassing," House replied.

She smiled at him.

"You know, House. They told me you were going to be a jerk, a rule-breaker, and the ultimate therapeutic challenge. Two out of three ain't bad."

"Now that you mention it, I did follow all the rules, didn't I?" he said.

"Oh yeah, you and Dr. Cuddy sneaking off in the corner to play kissy-face was totally by-the-book."

"_Allegedly_ playing kissy-face," House said.

She smiled.

"I'm going to miss you around here. Yes, you were a challenge—but you worked hard and you deserve to go home."

House looked down for a second.

"Thanks," he said softly.

"And now I'm going to hug you."

"I really wish you wouldn't," he said.

"Sorry. Non-negotiable."

And she walked over and gave him a warm hug.

"House, you have so many gifts—and I'm not just talking about your medical mind," she said, when she let go. "Don't let them go to waste."

#####

House stood in Cuddy's office and cleared his throat loudly.

"Dr. Gregory House," he said, "reporting for duty."

And he saluted.

"They let you out!" she said, beaming at him.

"Indeed. I officially have the urine of a newborn baby. But the real question is. . .am I un-fired?"

"You were never officially fired," she said, laughing. "But yes, you are un-fired."

"Sweet."

"In fact, get out of here. Your team is totally stumped by their latest case."

"Color me stunned."

He had just started to leave when Cuddy tentatively said, "House?"

He turned.

"Yeah?"

"Once you get settled back in. . .no rush, but I was thinking maybe you could come over for dinner? Rachel's pretty excited to see you."

"Once I get settled," he agreed.

He took a few more steps to the door. "Okay, I'm settled," he said.

She laughed again.

"Tonight? 7 o clock?" she said.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."  
#####

His team was discussing their latest patient, who was exhibiting all the classic signs of airborne poisoning, but they couldn't pinpoint the source.

"Check his house and his place of work," House said.

"Already did," Chase said.

"Well, check again."

"We don't need to check again," Chase insisted. "We went over it with a fine-tooth comb."

"Well, the guy didn't poison himself," House said. He furrowed his brow. "Unless. . .?"

They all looked at him expectantly.

"I'm joking you morons. He didn't poison himself."

"Good to have you back House," Taub said.

"His wife mentioned something about him making puppets," Foreman suddenly recalled.

"Like Elmo and Big Bird?" House asked.

"Those are Muppets," Taub said.

"Thank you, Gonzo," House replied.

Taub shot him a look.

"No," Foreman said. "Puppets. Like, hand-crafted, paper mâché puppets. Those things are big. The guy has to have a studio someplace."

Chase pulled out his cellphone and called the patient's wife. When he hung up, he said: "She says he works out of an artist loft on top of an industrial dry cleaners in Trenton."

"Those places are loaded with chemicals," Taub said.

"Go. Find. Do," House ordered.

As they all got up to leave, House said: "A moment of your time, Foreman."

"I'll catch up," Foreman said to Chase and Taub. Then he turned to House: "What's up?"

House gave him a slightly searching look. He hesitated.

"Uh, good catch on the puppet thing," he said finally.

It clearly was not what he had intended to say, but it was something.

"Thanks," Foreman said. Then he grinned: "Welcome back House. We missed you."

And he ran off to catch up with Taub and Chase.

#####

House heard tiny, eager footsteps and then some fumbling with the knob as Rachel opened the door.

"Howse!" she said.

She hugged both his legs, hard—exactly as she had been taught _not_ to do. He didn't even mind the pain.

"Hiya kid," he said.

She thrust her friendship bracelet in his face.

"You made this!" she said.

"True," he said.

"And it's black and yellow cause those are bumblebee colors and I'm a cool kid cause I like bumblebees."

"Equally true," he said.

Cuddy came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

"I see the one-child welcoming committee let you in," she said.

House smiled.

"She did," he said. "And I feel extremely welcome."

Then he took in Cuddy's appearance—jeans, a somewhat tight tee-shirt, plus makeup and heels. (The heels and makeup were a good sign—she was trying to look good for him.)

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she replied. He awkwardly handed her a bouquet of flowers. "For you."

"Not necessary House. But . . . thank you. They're beautiful."

He shrugged.

"Wanna play in my room?" Rachel said. "I got new Barbies we can run over with trucks!"

"Cool," House said.

"Just for 10 minutes Rach, dinner is almost ready," Cuddy said.

And Rachel grabbed House's hand and impatiently yanked him toward her bedroom.

#####

What was weird about dinner was how, well, _not_ weird it was.

Rachel yammered on cheerfully about bumblebees and friendship bracelets and House gave Cuddy grief for her cooking, and Cuddy complained about some bureaucratic hoops she had to jump through at the hospital, and instead of feeling awkward and stiff, it felt normal—inevitable even.

After Rachel went to bed, House started for the door.

"Thanks for dinner Cuddy. It meant a lot to me," he said.

"Where are you going?" she said, surprised.

"Home," he said. "I don't want to . . . overstep my bounds."

"You're not," she said. "I want you to stay."

House hesitated, scratched his head.

"I just. . .I need to know this is real, Cuddy. Because it's real to me. And if it's not real to you, I'm not sure I can . . ."

She cut him off, put her finger on his lips.

"It's real to me too," she said quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you again, House. I promise."

He closed his eyes.

"You say that now. . .But last time. . ."

"I've changed," she said. "And before you lecture me about how no one changes: Bullshit! We've both come a long way in a short time."

"Your ability to have an argument with me without my saying a word is a skill, Cuddy," he said, amused.

She laughed.

"I'm serious!" she said.

"I know you are," he said, with a tiny, adoring smile.

"House, in some ways, I think I needed that intervention as much as you did."

"How do you mean?"

"It got me looking at my own mistakes, my own regrets, my own choices."

"That's . . . good," he said, cautiously.

"It got me to realize that our relationship is flawed, because all things in life are flawed—even great things. But you have to hold on to the great stuff, when you're lucky enough to get it."

"And I'm the great stuff?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"Yeah, you're the great stuff," she said, taking his hand.

"I think you're pretty great, too," he said.

"Then don't leave," she said. She brought his hand to her mouth.

"Okay," he said. "I won't leave."

And he enveloped her in his arms.

Epilogue

"Happy birthday, Mom," House said into the phone.

"Thank you, Greg," Blythe said.

"You don't look a day over 77!"

"I'm 76!"

"Oh," he said. "In that case. . ."

"You're bad, Greg!"

"Hey mom. I've got someone here who wants to say something to you."

He handed over the phone.

"Happy birthday, Blythe," Rachel said shyly. "I made you a fwiendship bwacelet."

And then she handed the phone quickly back to House

"That was Rachel, in case you were wondering," House said. "Cuddy has not developed a speech impediment."

"She sounds precious House!"

"She is," House said. "Anyway, the elder Cuddy also wants to talk to you."

"Happy birthday!" Cuddy said brightly. "Did you get the gift I sent you?"

"I'm looking at it right now. I love it."

"Oh good! Does it match your decor?"

"Perfectly. Like it came with the house."

"I'm glad. . .and we have one more gift coming. But I'm going to let your son tell you about it."

She handed House back the phone.

"Ma? Got plans next weekend?"

"None that I can think of."

"You do now. We're coming for a visit."

"We?"

"Me. The kid. Cuddy."

"Greg, you haven't come to visit me in. . .well, I can't remember when the last time was."

"I'm a good influence!" Cuddy yelled, giggling, in the background.

"She is," House said. Then, more gently he said: "I'm really looking forward to seeing you mom."

"I don't know what to say. I'm absolutely elated!" Blythe said.

"Yeah," House said, looking over at Rachel and Cuddy. "Me too."

THE END


End file.
